the light of the dying day
by pomnit
Summary: Elena's nails, now crusted with bloody dirt, dig into each of the corpse's legs as she drags it towards the others. -Zombie!AU-
1. bitterness

**title|** the light of the dying day  
**rating|** pg  
**words|** 2,285  
**summery|** _Elena's nails, now crusted with bloody dirt, dig into each of the corpse's legs as she drags it towards the others. _(Zombie!AU)  
**A/N|** I have no idea what this is or where it came from or why I wrote it - plot bunnies are weird that way - but it was fun to write. Enjoy? _(I sort of want to continue this, but my inspiration is fickle and I don't like making commitments, so this is marked as complete for now.)_

* * *

Elena's nails, now crusted with bloody dirt, dig into each of the corpse's legs as she drags it towards the others.

She lets go when the monster is close to another and grabs it's arms, starts pulling it onto the pile of others. She feels brief guilt for calling it a monster. It was a man once. Once. Once.

The thud that comes from the body when she lets it drop onto another shakes away the sympathy fogging her thoughts. They are no longer men. Beasts. Creatures. Not men.

She walks away from the heap, moves to grab another body and passes Damon. He's carrying a body, has enough strength to do so. She turns and watches as he gently lays the girl he's carrying down onto the others like her.

The girl's hair is covered in muck and dirt, hints of blood splashed across the brown strands. Elena remembers her. She had said her name was Madeline. Damon called her Maddy. He had hope for her.

She forces herself to turn back around when he brushes Madeline's hair away from her face, swallows down any pity she might have for him, lets it rot in her stomach with her sympathy and sorrow and grief. Those emotions are useless now. Anger and fear keep her going, sadness weighs her down. She drills this into her mind as she grabs onto the legs of another corpse and pulls.

She tries to keep her eyes off Damon as she drags the corpse closer. A part of him died when he was forced to burn and cremate his friends, when he was forced to put a stake in his brother's heart. But yet he still feels pain for a dead girl they've known no longer than a week. He still had faith that they could only go up from here, that she would somehow be immune to the vampire bite.

She knows how easy it is for a vampire to turn their emotions off. She wonders if he's tried.

She wonders if there's something wrong with her for thinking like this, so inhumanly.

Inhumanly. Ridiculous. Nothing around them fits the definition of human anymore. Why should she?

She sets the corpse's legs down softly when she reaches the pile, despite her arms begging her to just let them drop. She breathes heavily, her body moaning with fatigue. She has to push herself to heave the body onto the pile.

When she's done, no more bodies to move, she sees that Damon is still next to Madeline. He's on his knees, watching her with a dark intensity, his hands on her chest. She knows what he's doing. Memories flood back, of watching a still chest, waiting for a breath, a sigh, any sign of life. Pressing an ear to ashen skin and willing for a heartbeat. Begging, pleading, only getting lifeless orbs in return.

When she moves towards Damon, sits next to him, she thinks of the one comforting thought she had when the virus had ripped Stefan from them.

He had not been her Stefan when he died. He had been a ghost, a pathetic copy. Her Stefan, the one she loved and lost, had died long ago. Klaus had torn him away, not the virus. She did not mourn the thing that wore his face when it was killed. She mourned the fact that it dragged her hope down with it.

Her Stefan had already been long gone. As she watches Damon cling to the small girl, she realizes he doesn't even have that. Madeline was still Madeline before she attacked them, before he had to kill her.

They need to light the fire. Night is falling around them and the bodies need to be burnt. Damon must notice too, but he doesn't move. She grabs his shoulder and shakes him. When he doesn't move, she shakes harder, eventually having to pull the matches out of her pocket and wave them in his face.

The matches startle him, and he looks at her, blinks in confusion. He glances between her and the matches, then nods slowly, understanding. He looks back at Madeline once more before getting up. He walks away from the pile and she watches as he grabs a can of gasoline and comes back. She silently moves out of his way.

They don't speak anymore, not outdoors or in new places. And even in places they know well, they're only brave enough to whisper. Call it paranoia, but one wrong sound could set off a hidden ghoul. The monsters are often around them, so they have to be careful.

The silence cuts into her sometimes, makes her anxious, and she's almost grateful for small sounds. Footsteps and clinks of plates and rustling of leaves. She's almost surprised how little she used to appreciate them.

Damon douses the corpses in gasoline, the splashing sound making her stomach clench in disgust. He drops the jug when finished. He gestures towards the pile, her signal to the start the fire.

Her eyes glide over the pile before striking the match. Only six today. Five strangers. A week ago there was twelve.

She throws the match into the heap, steps back as the bodies light up in a blazing flame. Damon stays still. The light bounces off his face, a deep contrast to the night around them.

They should move, find shelter. But when she sees tears on his cheek, she realizes she doesn't have the heart to pull him away just yet. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes. His eyes shut and he breathes in shakily. She looks back to the fire. Sometimes, she wishes she could afford to feel like he feels, to cry and mourn.

The smell of ashes and blood and burning flesh wafts over her and she coughs, has to look away from the fire.

She freezes when she sees the figure watching them in the shadows, the fire not reaching them. Could it be- No, she recognizes the outline. Anger courses through her and she lets go of Damon's hand.

He seems to notice the sudden movement and opens his eyes, looks at her and follows her line of sight. When he sees the figure, she sees the rage on his face and knows he recognizes him too.

He hastily tries to move past her, but she blocks him, plants her hand firmly on his chest and shakes her head. Damon is not in the right place to talk to him. He'll get himself killed.

She starts walking towards the figure before Damon grabs her arm. She looks back to him and he glares at her. She nods her head at the figure and tries to communicate with her eyes. Someone has to see what he wants. It has to be her. Damon seems to get the message, because he just shakes his head and tries to pull her away. She shoves him and shakes his hand off, makes her hands into fists and glares back at him. _I have to._ She grabs the part of her arm where a vervain dart is hidden. _I'll be fine._

He clenches his jaw and she shakes her head. She turns on her heel and tries to walk away again, this time successfully. Damon doesn't grab her again, but she can feel his eyes burning into her back as she walks.

When she reaches the figure, the moon casts enough light for her to see his face. It's him. Klaus.

Klaus' eyes briefly flick past her, looking to the fire, then back to her. "I'm looking for my brother."

She crosses her arms, shifts her weight to her other foot and looks down. "He's not here." It's not a lie, though she wouldn't tell Klaus if he was.

He glares at her. She thinks if she stepped any closer, the anger radiating off him might burn her. "I can see that, sweetheart. If I thought he was still with you, I would have assumed he was in your bed." To his credit, she flinches at the dig. She makes fists at her sides and wishes she could send one into his jaw. "I was hoping you could tell me where he is."

She looks back up at him, hissing her words. "Screw you. Find him yourself."

She turns back around, intending on marching back to Damon, but Klaus grabs her arm and spins her back to him. She gasps and tries to shake him off. She can almost feel the way Damon tenses, prepared to run to her rescue, but she knows what Klaus will do to him if he does. She raises her hand as a signal to stay back, quickly shakes her head and harshly whispers "I'm fine." She knows he can hear.

Klaus' fingers tighten on her arm and she can see any patience he has left is seeping away. "Where is he, Elena?"

She feels relief when Damon stays away, albeit watching her carefully, but it doesn't compare to the anger billowing up in her stomach. "Why does it matter?"

"I need to speak with him."

"About what?"

His nails are digging into her arm and she thinks they're drawing blood. "None of your concern," he snarls.

He's trying to scare it out of her. She glares back instead. "Then go ask someone it concerns."

She tries to shake him off again. He releases her arm this time and she steps back, her fingers squeezing around the crescent cuts as she glares at him.

Her eyes flicker over Klaus in his angered state. He's healthy, she notices. He looks like he's drunken blood in the last few days. The anger in her stomach is boiling to rage. Elijah is out searching the country for any remains of blood, human of otherwise, and he never finds anything. He always comes back half starved, and she practically has to force her wrist into his mouth. Damon is barely living, their stock of blood bags getting smaller and smaller each passing day. At this point, it'll surprise her if Elijah even comes back. They both refuse to drink from her but are dying in the process.

And meanwhile, the bastard that started all of this is full and healthy. A desperate part of her wants to ask him where he finds blood, but she swallows the question down roughly. The day she asks for Klaus' help is the day she willingly walks into the arms of one of the mindless monsters hunting her.

She forces herself to turn away from Klaus, to try and walk away. "If that's all you want, then we're done here." Her body is shaking with a deep hatred and it's hard to move her legs. Every part of her body screams to lash out at him when she hears his next words. "I notice the history teacher is missing. Did he abandon you as well?" His voice is lacking of any hint of amusement, any attempt at humor. His words reek of a bitterness that is thicker than the smell of the fire.

She doesn't turn, doesn't face him, but she wants to rip him apart and shred his lungs because _how dare he?_

She spits the words out before she can stop herself. "We buried him next to Caroline." She can feel the way the jab hits him, knows her words have hurt him more than any physical blow could have, but his pain brings her no pleasure. She wants to tear out her own tongue because _how dare **she**?_

She walks away and he doesn't stop her again.

When she reaches Damon, her eyes are blurring and her hands are shaking. The fire is bouncing all around her, she can feel it's heat. She has to leave.

She grabs his wrist and tugs, starts pulling him towards the car. He follows with reluctance, glancing back at Klaus as she drags him. "We're leaving," she hisses. She can't be here anymore.

When Damon starts the car, she looks back and sees that Klaus is now standing by the fire, looking absently into the flames.

She hopes the fire somehow reaches up and chokes him, slices through him and pulls him down into the heat.

She hopes she can hear his screams as he burns.


	2. guilt

**title|** the light of the dying day (2/? - guilt)  
**rating|** pg-13  
**words|** 2,961  
**summery|** _She's never really gotten used to the feeling, her blood being sucked away as sharp fangs bite into her flesh. It's the thing that happens to the victims, not the willing. _(Zombie!AU)  
**A/N| **Luckily, I had enough inspiration to write more! Which isn't a guarantee this will be good, (in fact, it probably isn't) so be warned.

* * *

The can of corn slips out of Elena's shaky fingers, crashing to the floor, the sound making her jump.

Her other hand grips the counter, steadying herself. The can is luckily still in one piece. She takes in a long breath before bending down to pick it up.

She needs to sleep. She hasn't slept in.. How long has it been since she slept? Moving her body is taking every effort in her muscles. Two days, maybe.

She sets the can back on the counter and stares at it. Why does she bother? She has no appetite. Damon doesn't eat any of the food.

She sighs and pulls a can opener out of a kitchen drawer. She has to force herself to eat, she knows that. Food builds strength and she can't be weak.

Her head snaps up when she sees a motion out of the corner of her eye. She puts the can opener on the counter before moving to the kitchen window. She sees nothing but night, a deep darkness that slowly sweeps over the farmhouse they have taken as a home. But she saw _something_- No, it must be paranoia. She closes the small yellow curtains over the window and makes her way back to the counter.

She stops when something clatters to the floor beside her. She looks down and sees an old calender. It must have slipped.

She picks it up. Her fingers ghost over old dates. She frowns and throws it into the trash. She hasn't kept a calender for over a year. She isn't sure what month it is. It might be December, maybe January. She grips the counter next to her, her fingers pressing into the spaces between the tile. She doesn't know the time either. Her watch had stopped a while ago, and there had more important things to think about than fixing a watch.

She grits her teeth and reaches for the can opener. The idea of eating sickens her but she has to be strong enough to defend herself. She thinks she might sleep for a few hours after dinner.

A thump and a rustle startle her and her hand freezes in mid-air. Her ears pick up, and although she doesn't have the sensitive hearing of a vampire, the constant silence around her has made her ears adapt.

When she hears another thump, she bites into her lip and pulls open another drawer, takes a wooden stake out of it. It's coming from the front door.

She makes her way into the living room, stake tightly clutched in her hand. Her anxiousness builds when she reaches the door. They never come to the house. Some are hungry enough to venture close, but those ones are never stealthy or quiet. She prepares herself to reach for the doorknob, takes in a short breath and holds it when the door starts opening on it's own.

And the first sight of movement, she quickly steps in front of the monster and plunges the stake into it's heart. She hears a gasp and sees that in her panic she missed. She pulls the stake back out and prepares to plunge it back in, until she looks at the monster in the dim light.

This creature's well dressed, short black hair and- Oh no. No,_ no no no._

She curses, drops the stake and grabs him, tries to steady him. He holds onto the door frame and the apologies come tumbling out. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I thought- They never come here, but I- I was scared and-"

Elijah shakes his head, cutting her off. She watches him carefully, hoping she didn't do too much damage. His eyes are closed and he's breathing heavily. He looks weak, she thinks, and her heart falls when she realizes that must mean he didn't find anything. After a moment, he pulls himself up and she helps him to the couch.

She stays standing while he sits. She notices his wound is only just starting to heal. Her face scrunches up in a frown. He needs blood, very badly by the looks of it. She takes her small army knife out of her left pocket and flips it open. Elijah watches in confusion, recoils when she cuts her wrist and holds it out to him.

She sighs in frustration and sits next to him, still holding out her wrist while she slips her knife back into her pocket. He's always like this when he shows up, always refuses to take blood from her until she convinces him. She could force him, weak as he is now, but that's a last resort.

He glances at her wrist before shaking his head. "No," he chokes out, his voice raspy. He moves away but doesn't get up.

She doesn't understand why he does this. He clearly needs blood. Maybe he thinks he'll lose control and drain her. But when has he ever lost control?

He's not looking at her. She moves closer and holds her wrist higher. Blood is sliding down her skin and dripping off, making crimson spots on her jeans. She'll have to wash them later.

She only lets him resist a moment longer before putting her wrist to his mouth. He frowns and tries to shrink away, but she grabs his shoulder and holds him in place. "You need to drink, Elijah. Please."

He watches her blood drip, debating whether or not to take what's offered to him, before finally wrapping his fingers around her wrist and sinking his teeth into the cut.

Elena holds back a gasp as he drinks. She's never really gotten used to the feeling, her blood being sucked away as sharp fangs bite into her flesh. It's the thing that happens to the victims, not the willing. She holds onto the couch for support, a weariness cloaking over her, and suppresses a shudder.

He only lets himself drink for another minute before gently pushing her away and wiping his mouth. He's still weak, needs more than what he's took, but she decides to not to push him.

She leans back against the couch cushions and puts pressure on the cut. She blinks, shakes her head and squeezes her arm, trying to keep herself awake.

She watches him through hazy eyes as he looks around the room. He looks back to her and she thinks she hears the question before it leaves his mouth. "Damon?"

He sounds better with blood in his system, she thinks, stronger. Her mind focuses back onto the subject of Damon and she shrugs. Her memory suddenly picks up, telling her where, and she mumbles "In his bedroom, I think."

She briefly glances down the hall to check, but she looks away as soon as she sees Damon's bedroom door. It's closed. She looks down, her hands suddenly fascinating.

When Damon's bedroom door is closed, she leaves him alone. She had opened it once. The generator had been down and she was going to ask him to try and fix it while she made dinner. But as soon as she took one step in, she froze, taking in the image and letting it burn into her mind.

He had been laying on his bed, arms spread out, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression devoid of any feeling or emotion. He hadn't even spared a glance in her direction, just laid there, stock still, as if she wasn't there at all. She had slipped out of the room, quieter than a whisper, and closed the door behind her. The image replays her mind, over and over and-

She doesn't realize she's shaking until she feels Elijah touching her, his fingers gently brushing over hand. She stares down, watches her hands as they slightly lose their shake. He still does no more than let his fingers hover over her skin. This, like all of his actions now, is laced with reluctance and hesitance, like he thinks he might break her, like he thinks he's not worthy to touch her.

Her hands finally still, and she inhales, feels a tremor in her throat. She looks up, her eyes connecting with his. She sees concern and something else she can't place. Her mind starts to wake up and leave it's haze, and for the thousandth time, she wonders why he's still here, why he stayed in the first place.

She thinks it might boil down to their series of betrayals, that maybe he still feels guilty for leaving her with Rebekah. Honestly, she was never very angry with him for that. He was protecting his family, and she would have done the same and more to protect hers. But he was angry with himself and she thinks he might feel like he owes her.

But the more she lets herself think about this, the more memories sprout up. Of him finding her clutching to Matt's broken body and softly pulling her away as she sobbed. Of him helping her bury Caroline and not saying a word as she started weeping halfway through her eulogy, just put his hand on the small of her back. Of him taking care of Stefan's lifeless corpse because neither she nor Damon had the strength to do so.

But why would he care enough to stay? She stops thinking when she gets to that question, shuts down her thoughts and just focuses on surviving. Trying to understand Elijah and his motives is a complex road she doesn't have enough time to go down.

She doesn't suppress the next shudder, lets it flow through her as she quickly takes her hand away and pushes herself off the couch. She tries to get away but her feet are moving too fast for her legs to keep up and she loses her balance, almost falling. She feels Elijah's hand on her back, steadying her, and she jerks away from his touch. Everything is clouding around her and she regrets not sleeping sooner. She uses all her strength to stumble to her bedroom, muttering over her shoulder as she tries not to trip, "Need to sleep."

She thinks she hears a quiet _'Goodnight'_before she slams her door behind her. She leans back against it, tries to clear the fog choking her.

What wakes her up fully and drowns her at the same time is opening her eyes and realizing she is not in her room.

_No._

**_No._**

_"No."_

_"Ric, please-"_

_He shakes his head quickly, avoiding her eyes. "No."_

_She takes his hands in hers. She wishes she was strong enough not to cry. "Ric, if we kill you while you're wearing your ring, then you'll come back, you'll come back the same-"_

_"No."_

_"The vampire bite won't have any effect, it'll be gone, you'll be okay, just let us-"_

_"_No!_" He shoves her away and she stumbles back, hits the wall. He looks at her in shock, as if he doesn't understand what he just did. She moves to him, trying to touch him, but he steps back. "I- I can't hurt anymore people, I can't-" _

_"Ric, the ring-"_

_"No! The ring does it to me too, it makes me different and I-" A sob cuts him off and he can't look at her, sinks to the floor. "I don't want to hurt anyone, Elena. Please, just let me.."_

_He doesn't finish his sentence, lets it trail off and disappear, but she knows what word comes next. Let me die. Let me kill myself or do it for me._

_He's right, he could hurt them, he could kill them. The vampire bite will infect him, the virus will destroy his mind. It has no cure. The ring has a high chance to do the same. And honestly, they don't have any idea if their method will work, if the bite will simply disappear when he dies. They do however, know the odds of that happening, even if they aren't willing to admit it. _

_She knows what the right choice is here, but she can't just let him-_

_She crouches next to him and her hands cup his cheeks. "Please, Ric, just consider. Please, for me."_

_He doesn't speak for a long time, still can't look at her, but he eventually answers. "..Okay." _

_Deep down, she hears the lie in his voice, hears the broken acceptance of what he has to do to save them, to save himself, but she doesn't want to hear it, blocks it out. She just cries, holds him, pretends everything will be okay._

_That night, Alaric hangs himself._

Her knees hit the floor with a sickening thud and she chokes on a scream. She wheezes, coughs, falls to her hands, digs her nails into the floorboards and tries to get the scream out. A nausea is building in her stomach, climbing up her throat, and she can't do anything but violently cough and gasp, her body trying to expel bile that she doesn't have.

She has to leave, she can't be here, _she can't_-

Everything is foggy and dim as she fumbles with the doorknob, as she pulls open the door and hears it slam against the wall, as she stumbles down the hallway towards the bathroom and thinks she hears someone calling her name behind her but doesn't care.

Elena crashes to the bathroom's tile floor, her knees again breaking her fall, and crawls to the toilet, leaning over the bowl and heaving. Her body has very little food in it's system, making every heave dry. Tremors shake up her spine and hot tears are making their way down her cheeks despite her efforts to hold them back.

She feels pathetic, weak. But the most overwhelming feeling of all is a deep loneliness. That's why, even though she doesn't want anyone to see her like this, crumpled up on the bathroom floor, she feels a tinge of relief when she feels someone holding her hair back as she heaves over the basin.

But an anger quickly takes over, consumes her, causing her to shrink away from the touch, to hold back her heaves and push herself into a corner, to curl up there and hide. How can someone be so kind to her? They must know what she is, what she did. How could they be gentle? Why would they try to comfort her? She was a selfish coward, forced him to drown in his pain instead of relieving him from it. She pushed him until he saw no other way out, pushed him to kill himself, to tie a rope around his neck and hear it snap, when she could have helped him, made his last moments painless and happy.

She thinks there are fingers in her hair, hands against her skin, so she snaps away, closes her eyes and digs herself further into the corner. "_Go away,_" she grits out. She doesn't deserve comfort. She knows who's standing in front of her and it only makes her angrier. He of all people should know, should be able sense what she did. He should hate her.

She feels his hesitance to leave and covers her face with her hands, dirty strands of hair brushing against her fingers. She wants to scream, to yell and cry, but her throat has become sandpaper, so the most she can get out is harsh whispers. "**_Leave me alone_**."

There is silence for an instant, but then she hears footsteps. The thud of the door as he closes it behind him echos in her head, making her feel more alone than before. The nausea returns and she leans back over the bowl.

She is alone, just as she always was and always will be. Everyone will eventually be stripped away from her. She will watch everything fall away until she is left standing deserted in the aftermath. She will be alone until the day she dies, and it will be of her own doing. There will be no one left to blame.

She empties what little is left in her stomach.


End file.
